


Identity Games

by ThatLesbianThere



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatLesbianThere/pseuds/ThatLesbianThere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets a young girl name Amy Akerman, events unravel from there on</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> This is fanfic for my friend Amy as a late Christmas present. Its set before the fall.  
> I know the plot isn't that good but tried my hardest with it. So i hope you enjoy

Sitting up straight as the 10 'o' clock news began, Amy Akerman rubbed her hazel eyes with a confused face. Had she really managed to sleep all day? Pushing mousy brown locks backwards so they were off her face she turned her attention to the news only to smile widely. A new murder case. 3 people had been found dead in 3 weeks, serial killer? The police had no clue. She smiled as her favourite detective appeared on screen. Sherlock Holmes. She quickly took out a pen and paper and started to write down every detail she was getting from the news report; it wasn't much but it was something - and that was most definitely better than having nothing at all.  
The address of the crime scene and the Identity newest victim was the main information she got from the report.

Amy Akerman was a junior detective with many connections already. With 5 minor cases already under her belt she felt like she could try and conquer the world of crime solving. Of course she knew she was no match for the great Sherlock Holmes, whom she had admired for so many years now. Although at the age of 19, she was rather young for her profession but that didn't stop her at all.  
She was smart, caring and rather proud of herself for her achievements. For one so young she had such old eyes that seemed to tell of times long gone, and this worked to her benefit as when using her artistic skills for disguises it allowed her to look more believable. One could say that Miss Akerman was a master of disguise and how is that useful in a crime investigation you ask? Well you'll have to wait until the fall to find that out...  
***  
Dressed in a red coat and black jeans, Amy pulled her long locks up into a tight bun a fine layer of makeup applied to her features, to add that look of professionalism, she walked with purpose to the address jotted down on her piece of paper. Amy searched through her tartan shoulder bag until she came across just what she was looking for. Her police department identification badge. Well every girl needs her little props!  
Amy Akerman - Detective Inspector  
Well there had to be a few lies here and there so that she got what and where she wanted. As if a mere Junior Detective could get on a case this high profile. 

The crime scene wasn't what she expected, it wasn't like crime scenes she usually went to, this one was quieter. Police officers were standing around looking bored out of their minds. Amy flashed her badge and was let under the thin yellow and black which was meant to keep out ordinary people. She headed straight inside the cinema to see more officers exiting the building.  
"Good luck missy!" one male officer calls at her, she notes his yellows fingers and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Smoker. "Mr Holmes is making a magical deduction!" He waves his hands dramatically in the process, obviously taking the piss before bursting into laughter with his co-workers. Amy watched as they left the building through the kicked in double red leather doors worn from the age and weather here in London. Amy smiled to herself before hurrying towards the scene to watch the great Sherlock Holmes make a deduction. She hears his voice before anything else making her stomach fill with butterflies. She stood in the doorway watching him while he inspected the dead body that had yet to be moved to the morgue. Amy immediately frowned at the scene...something was missing from here, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. The he began to spoke  
"Four cameras yet no one saw a thing, how does that work John? What do you think?" Sherlock pondered as he looked up noticing Amy but not saying a word. John frowned "I have no clue Sherlock, how does it work?"  
Amy smirked to herself, she knew why nothing was caught on camera. Sherlock scratched his dark curls "So, you. Standing in the doorway, how was nothing seen?" Amy quickly filled her lungs with a gasp of air, he had noticed her, she smiles before answering his question eagerly "The cameras are on a timer, its a cinema. Who's going to want to steal anything from this room once its closed? The cameras must shut off when the cinema closes - 8pm every night" Sherlock turned around and once again began to speak to her " Well done, but what does that information tell us?" he takes a step towards her confidently not one ounce of doubt in him. Amy stared up at the man with eyes like an exploding supernova and cheekbones which she swore could cut through marble.  
"It tells us that the crime was committed between the opening and closing hours of the cinema" Amy stated proudly. Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the girl before him "Correct! But you missed out the fact that it also tells us that this killer knew that the cameras were on a timer" Amy frowned, she was just about to say that! She studied his face carefully before she began to speak but was rudely interrupted "I would also like to know what you're doing here seeing as you're not really a police detective" Oh. of course he would know its not a real badge. Amy sighed. "I am a detective..." Amy cleared her throat before carrying "Just not a police detective." Amy stated this proudly as she kept eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock smiled to himself before turning towards the door, John following behind him. 

Sherlock stopped in the doorway "Well? Are you coming?"


	2. Watson And Tea

John Watson was a strange sort of man, Amy had observed him for while. He always seemed frustrated by Sherlock's actions but only rarely complained. Amy cocked an eyebrow at him "Afghanistan or Iraq?" John nearly spat out the milky tea he had just sat down with. Mrs Hudson flailed as the plate of biscuits fell to the floor with a crash. "Afghanistan" Sherlock stated with a monotone voice as he rolled his eyes and went back to reading through the notes Amy had taken, he was starting to like this girl. Amy's eyes scanned the flat before she sat on the armchair, pulling out the cushion from behind her and fiddling with the edge, she pinched her own skin gently. Swearing this was a dream. Sherlock looked up and stood, Amy's eyes immediately followed him. His eyes studied her. "The only thing I cannot work out is how on Earth you got onto the crime scene?" Amy smirked proudly and held out her fake police badge to him. John's eyes followed the badge as she handed it over and Sherlock examined the badge carefully. "This is a very good fake" Sherlock nodded " You made it yourself?"   
"I did, took me only 2 hours to get it right but worth the time" As Amy spoke she grabbed a makeup wipe out of her bag and began to wipe away the layers of makeup to reveal her true face. This time John spat the last of his tea onto the rug. Mrs Hudson grabbed a cloth and quickly began to clean up the mess on the floor. Sherlock smiled, this girl was good.  
"You even had me convinced that was your real face. Very well done" He handed the badge back to her and placed his hands behind his back as he walked around the room. John finally regained composure and wiped the tea dribbling down his chin away with his sleeve. Sherlock continued the walk in silence as he pondered a thought. Mrs Hudson busied herself around the both of them. Amy was offered a biscuit more than once but declined each time  
"Mrs Hudson, please leave Miss Akerman alone" Sherlock said as he faced them all. For a moment Amy wondered how he had known her name but then remembered that he had seen the police badge  
"Actually I prefer Amy" She began only to be interrupted but Sherlock  
"Ah yes, I should of realised that. Its quite obvious now you've told me. Now what would be your next step in this case, Amy" he added emphasis when saying her name. A shudder ran down Amy's spine as she spoke "I would say we see who was on shift and check all inside surveillance as there is no signs of the cinema being broken in to"  
"We have all the cinema's surveillance on my laptop here" John informed her as he leant over his armchair to grab his laptop, he logged in and passed the laptop to Amy. She watched through what they had recorded. Sherlock watched her with curiosity, of course he had already worked out the murdered but he wanted to see what she could do. As Amy watched the videos she quickly came up with a few theories each being ruled out after a while  
"This person here" Amy paused the video " This is our murderer. He hides in the bathrooms and sneaks out just as the cameras cut off" She stayed focused on the laptop as she spoke and then showed them both a different camera feed "Then as we see him exit, he's obviously concealing a weapon, he's clearly covered in blood. He's also the only person who has worked all three nights people have been killed on. How did the police not notice this?" Amy finally looked up at Sherlock with her eyebrow cocked. He smiled at her "Well done Amy" He begun to text Lestrade and placed his phone down when he was done. "The police are on it now. I'm glad you noticed that or I would of been disappointed. I was impressed since you knew about the cameras. Well I say impressed I mean marginally, well most people could of figured that out. If they had the brains." Sherlock shrugs and Amy's smile fell.   
Well that compliment didn't last long but she thought it was better than nothing. John still sat in a dazed confusion looking between the two of them. How on Earth did she even notice that he had gone through the recordings so many times and not noticed that. "Oh John do stop beating yourself up about it." Sherlock's voice knocks John out of his daze and brings him back to the real world, he blinks a few times and stares at Sherlock. Amy stands and grabs her bag, Sherlock steals her phone from her hands quickly bypasses the passcode and puts his phone number into her contact list. "Come when I text, I could use someone like you on my team" He spoke honestly for once and placed her phone back into her still open palm. Amy closed her palm tightly around the black casing of her phone before she spun on her heel and left the room. She smirked as she went down the steps. "Thank you Mr Holmes..." she talked to herself as she clutched her phone casing a little tighter. He had just given her all the information she needed.


	3. Art

Her face is soon all over the news;  
"Junior detective, Amy Akerman was killed in tragic car accident. At around 6pm last night, If anyone has anymore information please call the police on the non-emergency number 101" The reporter begins to shuffle his papers " In other news-" John turns off the TV and places the controller on the arm off the chair and let out a puff of air he had been holding in. "She was so young..." He ran a hand through his honey coloured hair as he muttered.   
"Everyone dies at some point John." Sherlock states with a melancholy voice. John was shocked at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He actually sounded sad about the young girls death, or was it sadness it about something else? John guessed he'd have to wait and find out. They had seen her die; they had all been going to Speedy's after another case solved and they crossed the road. A taxi appeared out of nowhere and she was knocked down viscously by the black vehicle. Paramedics were called but nothing could be done. She had taken her last breath while held by her idol.  
***  
Police sirens wailed outside 221B Baker Street and Sherlock opened the front door to be greeted by Lestrade standing there, breathing heavily through his nose like a bull that just been relentlessly teased. "Sherlock...!" He took a deep breath "We need you to come to The National Gallery now." Lestrade finally caught his breath as he finished speaking. Sherlock simply nods and pushes past Lestrade to go downstairs and sits in the police car waiting for everyone else. John's phone goes off with a "Ping!". He lifts the mobile and checks his messages with a heavy sigh he stands and walks to the doorway. "Sherlock says hurry up" He says with an exasperated voice as he heads downstairs and into the police car waiting outside.

Trafalgar Square was packed like a One Direction concert but instead of screaming preteens the Square was filled with press, reporters and photographers. The two men elbowed their way through the thick crowds, finally reaching the gallery. Sherlock ignored the police guards sent t0 escort them to the crime scene and instead found his own way there and smirked as he saw the blood red words scribbled across the white washed walls.  
"Svool Ni Slonvh.  
Blf szev kilyzyob zoivzwb ulitlggvm nv.  
R'oo hvv blf hllm yfg blf dlm'g hvv nv.  
Gsv Tznv Rh Lm! "  
John's eyes widened as he saw the red letters across the wall. "I-Is that blood?!" John exclaimed and Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at him "Of course it isn't! The colour is too dark! Stop being an idiot, I'm positive I told you about that." He huffed out the last sentence as he turns his attention back to the writing on the wall. His eyes scanned every word, his mind ran through every cipher he could possible think of. "Ah ha! The Atbash cipher!" He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and quickly found the cipher online and he soon began to work out each line "Hello Mr Holmes.....  
You have probably already forgotten me.  
I'll see you soon but you won't see me.  
The Game Is On!"  
John listened as Sherlock read out the decoded message, John realised he was probably only reading it out to himself but he read it out loud enough for everyone to hear. Lestrade finally caught up to them "A painting it also missing. It's called Fame. A 19th century piece." He handed Sherlock a print of the piece of work which he studied curiously.  
"Why is it called fame? Its just an angel! Why would someone steal this?!" Sherlock began to get angry as he shouted out questions. He had no clue what was happening. For once Sherlock was stumped. "S-someone is hiding themselves. That's what that third line means..." Sherlock jabbed his temple frantically as he spoke to himself. He grabbed the security guard who was nearest and slammed him into the wall to his right. "Who are you?" Sherlock shouted in the older mans face "Who are you really?!" He slammed the man into the wall again with an anger John didn't know he possessed. Lestrade pulled Sherlock back quickly and held him as tightly as he could. The security guard rubbed the back of his head with a wince. "He came with us Sherlock! Calm down. He's no one to be suspicious of" Lestrade explained calmly as John reached for the security guard's hat and handed it back to him. Little did Sherlock Holmes know that the security guard wasn't the real writer of the message. The true author hid behind a pillar. Just a young student. A master of disguise.  
***  
Sherlock was finally dragged out of the gallery and taken back to the flat by John, after he had beaten up three more random security guards. The entire ride home Sherlock mumbled that one line to himself "I'll see you soon but you won't see me."  
John could tell it was really getting to him. Sherlock walked into the flat first and picked up the mail, opening the letter that was addressed to him. Enclosed in the letter was a small poem;  
"It torments him night and day  
the endless questions and constant suspicion,  
oh who could it be kind sir?  
Is it me? Or him? Or her?  
Or maybe the one you trust most."  
Sherlock practically growled at the letter in his hands before he screwed it up and threw it somewhere randomly in the apartment, the paper ball ended up hitting John in the head with an annoyed huff coming from the man in question as he began to speak "Sherlock could you please stop acting like a spoiled child when you get confronted with something you don't like. Its starting to get infuriating" Sherlock sat in his arm chair and pulled out his violin before he began to tune the instrument, completely ignoring John now as he began to play the beloved instrument. Little did either of them know that the person who delivered that letter was not the same postman they had had for the past two years.   
"It has begun, Mr Holmes" spoke the voice as the person walked through the packed streets. "You won't win this time"


	4. Facepaint and war cries

Greg Lestrade had been trying to help solve this case even though he knew Sherlock would get to it before anyone else could even try, one name he had heard on the streets repeatedly was May Makrane.  
"Disguising ones self is easy, once you know how and have the proper tools." May had told Lestrade with a flick of her dark brown curled locks when he had come to visit. Her eyes were dark and almost hid her iris, she had full plump pink lips. She looked like a pin-up girl and dressed like one too. She had shown Lestrade some small tricks of the trade and given him a few names for investigation as to help him along.  
***  
May Makrane was one of the best makeup artists you could ever find on the streets of London. Maybe even all of England. She could change a lowly old tramp into the most good looking man you had ever seen, well she could but a tramp could never afford her fees. May sat in her town house and filed her nails gently with a smirk painted across her features. The house was small but it was perfect for May. She had turned the spare room into a walk in wardrobe, well costumes and outfits were an important part of a disguise. Miss Makrane had a wide variety of costumes and outfits, most corresponded with a different "character" she had created. Her favourite had to be a middle aged journalist, she had named herself Susan Ford. Mrs Ford was her favourite not because of the clothing or makeup as both were atrocious in May's mind. No, the she liked Mrs Ford was because of the places she could get with this character and a fake journalist badge. May did have a slight interest in journalism but not a big enough interest to pursue a career in it. 

Snapped out her daydream May was greeted by a rather unusual customer, he had a golden brown tan and a smile that would give even the most hardened people a shiver down their spine. She bit her lip nervously as she starred as the rather slimy-looking man "Sorry mate we're closed" May stated with her cockney accent. Well it wasn't her real accent but a girl had to keep some things from everyone. "Oh drop the accent, love. You sound like a right twat!" He shot back at her with a venom. May swallowed nervously and straightened her spine so she stood taller and looked stronger than the really was, she hoped he couldn't read her body language. "Get out. I'm busy with my own stuff here!" This time she spoke with an anger in her regular, non-accented, voice which even though she was angry her voice was a lot softer and very elegant than the gruff cockney voice. Her voice was now back to the sweet sound of a melody which echoed throughout the small house. The slimy man May no decided to nickname snake, now she knew snakes weren't slimy but he just looked like a snake every time he push his tongue through his bright white, obviously fake teeth. She began to study this man, he was clearly single and he knew something. He had information...was he useful at all? May asked herself before swallowing her fear standing up to Mr Snake "So? What are you doing here? What do you want?" Snake chuckled quietly to himself before turning to face her and replying   
"Nice painting you have here" He stroked along the golden frame of the artwork with that horrible smirk on his face again.  
"Yeah, painted it myself" Only lies have detail, she reminds herself as she looked at the man with a death glare. "Now what do you want?" She demands.   
"I heard you're paying people a pretty penny for information on the great Sherlock Holmes!" He held up his hands as if he was surrendering to her, he had heard stories about not wanting to make this woman angry. She was deadly with a bloody toothpick if she was sneaky enough and everyone knew she was. She was a master of disguise, you could pass her on the streets and never even know it. She like a was ghost through a haunted forest, you may believe she's there but you could never prove it.   
"What's the information?" May speaks again, her smile returned to her face as she checks her perfectly painted nails, a deep shade of blue. Snake man snapped out of his daydream and focused back on May. "Rumours say he has a strong lead on the art thief. He's been asking questions around these parts." He finished and May grabbed a small leather pouch out of a drawer under the table she leant against and threw it to him. The coins in the pouch thumped against his chest before he mumbled a "thank you" and ran out of the house in a hurry. May quickly turned over the "OPEN" sign so it clearly said "CLOSED" She smiled as she headed up to her costume room, passing many lovely pieces of art on the way. He was walking right into her trap. The war had begun.


	5. Robberies

5 different paintings had gone missing from the National Gallery within 5 weeks of the first one being taken. Each time a picture was taken a message had been left for Sherlock. Each message had been written in the same code, purposefully Sherlock assumed. Whoever this was wanted their messages read.  
The other four messages read;  
"Szev blf urtfivw rg lfg bvg?" Have you figured it out yet?  
"Wl blf pmld dsl R zn?" Do you know who I am?  
"Tvggrmt xlowvi." Getting colder.  
"Kivkziv uli z ortsgmrmt hgirpv." Prepare for a lightning strike.  
Sherlock didn't really understand what the last two messages meant and he had spent countless nights awake trying to figure them out. Someone was finally getting outsmarted and he didn't even know who by. It was infuriating!  
This person, whoever they were, had inside information on every move he was making and they somehow managed to do this without him noticing and he noticed everything.  
***  
Sherlock had heard that there was a woman exchanging money for information about him. With his collar pulled up to shield himself from the light rain that began to pour and his blue scarf tightened around his toned neck, Sherlock followed the whispers until he finally found the estate where the rumours originated from. He entered the house and pulled down his collar as he no longer had to shield himself from the wind and rain which had worsened now. His dark curls were matted and stuck to his forehead, he brushed back the soft locks from his forehead and stepped further into the room that was lit by only a small desk lamp."I'm guessing you didn't read the sign?" Came a sweet female voice as May entered the room. She knew he was coming and had disguised herself in a long ginger wig, de mini-skirt and checked black and red checked shirt - May felt a bit like Amelia Pond from Doctor Who. Maybe she shouldn't of been watching some episodes before she dressed. Well it was too late now. Sherlock cocked a brow at her attire and tugged gently on his grey woollen jacket to make it sit right on him again. "No, no. I read the sign I just decided to ignore it" Replied Sherlock. May started to get annoyed at his cocky face. "I heard you're giving people money for information on me" Sherlock brakes the silence between them. "Yes, and what if I have? Maybe I like to know what's going on in the world" May replied with a small smirk playing across her plump lips. Sherlock studied her carefully "And what name did you give to this" He paused in thought "Persona" He decides on with a quick nod of his head. A frown pulls at the corner of May's lips but she quickly covers it with a smile "I call her Amelia." She remarks "After a friend.." May laughs quietly to herself thinking of Amy Pond. Sherlock gives her a confused look but pushes that thought out of his mind. He didn't need that sort of information clogging up precious brain space. "Why steal the paintings?" He questions.  
"I didn't steal anything" She replies quicker than a lightning strike to a flag pole. Well she was just being honest. She didn't steal them.  
Sherlock laughed at her "You have the evidence hanging on your wall!" he exclaims  
"Simple remakes. Think if I had stolen them I would be stupid enough to hang them up on my wall?" May raised both eyebrows as she spoke. "Best you get back to your boyfriend Mr Holmes. He's probably waiting on you." Sherlock turns up his coat collar and turns out of the door without another word. The door slamming as the wind drags it forwards, May smirks to herself and goes upstairs , her phone in hand. She sends one simple text  
"M,  
Holmes in place. Get ready for the fall.  
-Thief"  
May pulled her dark brown wig off with a laugh she checked her appearance in the mirror.  
"Hello again"


	6. Home Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little strange

Sherlock returned home, shaking off the wet weather and calling upstairs to John only to be met with no reply. That was unusual. Sherlock jogged up the creaking, wooden stairs and opened the flat door only to find the place empty. Chairs were turned over and John's laptop laid on the floor as if someone had thrown it out of his hands while he was on it. On the mantelpiece was a simple note "Remember yet?" Printed in red ink much like every other note that had been written. She had been here. Memory was strange thing, Sherlock had learnt to remember only things that seemed important to him.   
Solar System - Not important.  
Birthdays - Not important.   
Peoples names - Sometimes important.  
Ciphers - Important.

This person knew him well, She knew he wouldn't remember her name! Her face! She had been studying him...May! It had to be her. There was no one else! Sherlock made a quick dash back to May's house, not caring if the rain and wind battered him. He looked around. The house was gone...He was sure it was the right place. How on Earth did she managed that. He checked his surroundings again before running up to a young child and grabbing his roughly. "House 34! Where is it?!" Sherlock demands angrily in his face. The young boy points to a house with teary eyes. He rubs his eyes gently and pushes Sherlock away before running back to his mother. Sherlock ran to the house and opened the door with a twist of the golden door handle. He looked around, this house was empty...  
Sherlock suddenly began to feel really faint. He dashed around in a circle frantically, trying remember every detail he could before he fell to the floor with a thud!  
***  
When Sherlock woke he was confused as he look around to find a strangely familiar girl standing before him, she gave him an eerie smirk of knowing which gave him a slight chill. He looked down to see he wasn't bound, he looked up again. She didn't have a gun. How did she plan to keep him here? She looked at him with a crooked smile "You still don't remember me? Are you really that bad?"   
He glares at the woman before him "Where's John?"   
"Ah yes, Mr Watson. Very easy to get a hold of, I studied him for a while back. Only needed a few minutes and well you gave me that!"  
Sherlock studied this woman, he couldn't read anything about her. She was unreadable.  
"Oh you can stop trying to figure me out. A disguise artist is almost impossible to read in her true form" She states while wiping off the remains of any makeup in the nearby mirror.  
"May!" he exclaims, how had he not figured that out straight away  
"Oh so close yet so far, Dear. I suspect you'll get there soon" She pulls out her phone and shows him a direct video link to where John is now, unconscious and tied to a chair is a cold, grey room with only one window which had appeared to be blacked out though a slither of light managed to seep through which allowed Sherlock to see what condition John was in. He was bleeding from his nose and seemed to have a split lip and a broken nose. Could be worse, Sherlock thought to himself. The woman pulled her phone away and tucked it back into her pocket. Sherlock stood and stretched out his limbs as he scanned the room. The only door was behind the woman with hazel eyes. Would she stop him? He could try and distract her. No. it wouldn't work. He turned on the spot behind him was a boarded up window. He sighed softly and turned back to face the woman before him "So, why steal all the art?" HE questions her   
"I wouldn't call it stealing I would call it borrowing for a good cause"  
"And what cause would that be then?"  
"The cause to get your attention, Mr Holmes"  
"Is that it?"  
"Yes." She pauses "Well that and to expand my art collection. I do love a goof painting. Fame is my favourite, it reminds me of you. It's fame which is hard to make and easy to destroy." She smirked as she finished her sentence.  
Sherlock frowned here, what was her plan with kidnapping him. Did she even have one?  
"Goodbye Mr Holmes." The hazel eyed woman left the room with the slam of the heavy metal door.  
The lights in the concrete room went out, only the thin slips of light that managed to make their way through the thick bars lit the room. Sherlock walked towards one of the wall and wipes the concrete dust off the wall, showing red writing;   
"The downfall of Sherlock begins" The door opened wide and Sherlock steps towards the door and spots bloody footprints along the floor. Whoever walked that way was barefoot. He followed the footsteps to the west, the lead him through a number of corridors, each one decorated with a stolen painting. More had been stolen than he had thought. He continued to follow the trail until he found a bright room with a wooden door wide open, the room was filled with art supplies and the young girl was obviously copying the real pictures to make fakes. So she was the art thief...but how?

The girl turned and smiled at him, her mousy brown locks were now pinned back and she was wearing paint covered overalls. Amy. She hadn't died. How did he not figure that out? It was so simple now he knew, each detail fit into place. She was using her disguises to steal the works of art and and remake them. To easily make a profit with. "Oh dear, you've finally figured it out" Amy remarked "But..how?" Sherlock said, his eyes not focused on her as he tried to figure it out for himself "I saw you get hit by the car!"   
"Oh that was simple; all I was just on the hood of the car and splash a few fake blood packets everywhere. The paramedics were just random people i paid to play dress up" She laughs to herself.  
"So why do all this" He queried her   
"Because you're my next work of art" Sherlock looked around himself, it wasn't paint on the wall it was blood. This wasn't art studio, no..It was a place where she made real people into living art.  
"That stuff in museums isn't real art. Real art is intelligence and people! Its what people think and feel." Before Amy seemed completely ordinary but it appeared that inside even the sweetest people was a serial killer waiting to emerge. A shiver went down Sherlock's spine as she stepped towards him and pressed a kiss to his jawline. She stood on her tiptoes as she looked up at him "You are my newest piece of art, Mr Holmes. He said we each get a turn before you become a real piece of art..." She spoke as she was going into a daydream. Who was this man she kept going on about. What was she going on about?


	7. Strike.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small chapter just to wind you up

Sherlock stayed in the room with Amy, watching her. Studying her. How could she turn so crazy to suddenly. Her eyes seemed constantly hazy and her mind only seemed to have one focus. Keeping Sherlock in this room and preparing to make him into her next piece of art. "So when will I become this new piece of art?" He asked her.  
"Oh not for a long time yet, I wont even be the one making you into the art. Do you think I'm stupid, Mr Holmes? He thinks he has control over me but he doesn't, I'm playing him like a child plays with a doll." She laughs to herself and picked up the red paint and began to add colour to her canvas. "It's not blood really, y'know. Its my really fake blood good when fake your death. It's too bad I had to kill her off, I rather liked that character" She sighed softly and looks at him with hazel eyes. "You think I'm crazy. I'm not. Just getting what I want for once" She laughed and placed her paint down on the work surface. "Y'know I'm not a monster Mr Holmes, I'm just looking for my work muse" She still doesn't look at him and stays focused on her painting. He would like to know what she was painting, but he suspected one wrong move and she would pull something out of her sleeve. He wondered why she had information collected on him. Amy stood unexpectedly. "Did you prepare?" She asked him, giving him no context for the question. She smirked to herself and exited the room as s lightning strike hit , connecting with the metal frame of the room. The current passed through the metal frame and into the metal chair Sherlock sat upon. Crash! He yet again fell to the floor. At least that time she had warned him long before.


	8. Hello Old Friend

Amy grabbed her clothes and changed back into an old favourite; Susan Ford. The journalist. She had left Sherlock and John outside the house, both unconscious. Before heading to the police report of the art thief case she walked to 221B Baker Street and left the both a little gift. It was the canvas she had been painting on. Amy had painted a man laying on the pavement, obviously having jumped from a very high place. The man who lay on the ground had blood pooling by his dark brown curls and wore a grey woollen jacket. It was Sherlock. The picture was simple signed "I.O.U" The same thing Moriarty had carved on the apple for him a few months back. She was the real Moriarty. The other one must if been a fake. A puppet. It was so obvious now. Sherlock realised now as he had seen the picture. As for the meaning behind the painting he had no clue. Whatever it meant, it was eerie. It sent a shiver down his spine. Something bad was coming.

Susan Ford sat down with other journalists as police officers including Greg Lestrade began to fill in as the front desk. She held her notepad and pen in a very professional style and smiled to herself. Oh she loved her disguises. Lestrade began to tell what had happened to the paintings and how they had now been returned to thier rightful place in the museum. As the panel ended, the police gave thanks to Sherlock Holmes and mentioned quite quickly that they had not managed to catch the actual thief. Amy Akerman. The showed around a few photos but no one seemed to recognise her. Susan left with the other journalists at the end of the conference, her pen and paper tucked neatly away in her purple bag. Her phone rang suddenly and she quickly picked up, only one person had her number to that phone.  
"Hello M."  
"I did?"  
"Whats my next mission?"  
"Yes M."  
"Yes, it was clear he thought it was all me. Not you."  
"I'll be right there, M"  
Before the line went dead, Moriarty smiled to himself and said one last thing to her   
"Until the next time Moran."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So urm...thats it. I hoped you liked it and put up with my terrible writing and plot lines. So sorry, don't kill me for being a terrible author.  
> Merry Christmas!


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